“Whether what we sense of this world
is the what of this world only, or the what
of which of several possible worlds
--which what?—something of what we sense
may be true, may be the world, what it is, what we sense.
For the rest, a truce is possible, the tolerance
of travelers, eating foreign foods, trying words
that twist the tongue, to feel that time and place,
not thinking that this is the real world.”
-Metonymy as an Approach to a Real World,
William Bronk (1964)
When I become frustrated, or feel uncertain about the direction the publishing industry is headed, I like to think about how my favorite writers and teachers have held strong to their passion for the written word, despite the current climate, or state of affairs. Or, how others, after witnessing the strip-mining of the creative sphere, have thrown up their hands and walked away thinking, “There is no longer a place for people like me, destined to tell a story.” And then there are the others, who have courageously attempted to make meaning of it all, I wonder how they find a way to sleep at night.
If Joan Didion’s essay had been called, “On Keeping a Blog", instead of “On Keeping a Notebook”, how different my adolescence would have been—reading Slouching Towards Bethlehem, at sixteen, would have resonated in an entirely different way. It is curious now to consider how Didion’s style and voice would have been affected if she had access to such technology in the sixties—if the digital medium would have struck her fancy, or whether as a hot-ticket journalist, she would have just scoffed at the sheer commerciality of online writing. More importantly, would she have been capable of capturing the essence of a counter-culture and country on the verge of revolution? Or, would she have been able to feel a pulse at all, being so desensitized and disengaged by the whole business of social media?
Lili Anolik, a writer and editor for Vanity Fair, described Didion’s writing style as, “Catching, but not so much as her habit of thought.” How Didion approached a story has always been as much of an interest to her readers, as to why she chose to tell a story in the first place.
In 1966, Didion wrote, “Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.” The first time I read this, I believed she was writing about me, a young woman hungrily observing a corner of the world with all its beauty and chaos, trying to assign an understanding to my experiences. A year later, I would wake to a phone call from my father telling me to turn on the television, just in time to watch an airplane fly into a pair of already maimed towers. I remember sitting on the floor, in my little studio apartment in New Hampshire, trying to process the abject shock and horror of that scene: People falling through the air. Real people, falling. Buildings, falling.
I was old enough to have witnessed the failed Challenger expedition in 86'. In the 90’s, I watched replays of the Los Angeles riots and the Oklahoma City bombing, covered by various news outlets. And, though I wanted to believe I was astutely aware of our culture’s connection to the media lens, I never could have anticipated how deeply and directly affected I was from watching two towers collapse in the middle of New York City on live TV. For many, September 11th would become the day the great swarthy cocoon of coddling and safety would begin to unravel, revealing another picture of mainstream American culture, rattled, awry and untrusting.
The day I graduated from high school was not a joyous day. Ominous weather brewed in the distance, as people gathered after the commencement speeches to say their final farewells to classmates going off to war. Just months after the attacks on New York and Washington DC, the United States invaded Afghanistan—a conflict that later was compared to our involvement in Vietnam, as it marked the beginning of a new era for our country.
To ask whether I would have gravitated toward the same endeavors post-secondary, if Didion had been a blog writer with strong convictions regarding gluten-free diets and DIY crafts, I would have to say, I would not have. Like Didion experiencing the sixties, I felt a responsibility to write candidly about what was taking place around me, and what it meant to be a young woman during a time rife with propaganda and shifting cultural attitudes. Choosing to revel in the haphazard nature of writing, it was not just about promoting oneself or providing some sort of proof, rather it was about being part of a truth and story—how a story may not always be easy to tell, because as individuals, we have flaws and beliefs and idiosyncrasies that inevitably creep into the ways we express ourselves. To me, Didion was not only just a brazen woman speaking her mind with gonzo-esque journalistic chops, I saw her as the kind of artist I wanted to emulate.
In 2006, I started keeping a blog and online archive of my reveries, realizations and personal perspective, because a fellow writer whom I held in high regard, told me this was what being an artist in the 21st century was all about. “Why wait around to get picked, when you can be putting yourself out there without barriers or the bureaucracy involved with navigating an industry full of taste-makers and competition.”
As many blog writers do, I set out seeking affirmation that I had what it takes, and believed that this affirmation I sought would come by generating an audience online. In turn, I would appeal to the all-seeing, all-knowing purveyors of the written word, who would ultimately decide if I was worthy. “Write and blog every day,” that writer encouraged me. “And it will become as natural as taking a piss.”
Blogging made sense in a direct-to-the-consumer kind of way, appearing as a proactive alternative to creating in the dark, and then trying to market a polished piece of work, that may or may not, produce the desired results (in my case, an agent, and eventually a publishing deal). Like a jazz musician working out the nuances of an experimental composition in front of a live audience—improvising where need be, or when the inspiration moves him—blogging provided not only an outlet for creative expression, but an online “live” community that was willing and eager to give feedback.
Instantaneously, I could shuttle off my next big idea, and without missing a beat, I could move on to more current topics and material, without having to consider whether my writing was good enough, or whether I should be waiting for validation to come knocking on my door. However, if I had taken a tip from Andrei Corderscu’s earlier writing, I would have found assurance in knowing that, “In the dark, art is at its most artistic.” (A World Made Trivial) Perhaps, in my early twenties, I would not have even heeded the advice of a pedantic writer, though it is hard to say now, with almost a decade of blogging under my belt.
In The Muse is Always Half-Dressed in New Orleans, a collection of essays Coderscu published in 1993, he describes what he believed would happen if art was no longer being produced for the sake of art, but instead for what he called, “For the sake of storage.” He believed we would become obsessed with the “conspiracy of inclusion,” and as we shifted toward “our increasing power to project,” a great loss would occur in our memories and our connection to our “Logos”— our creation story.
Coderscu’s essay, “The Unsurveyed Arts, the Unsurveyable Artist,” reinforces this point; that we were headed into very, different territory with the advent of online technology, data sourcing, and the expanded forum. In more modern terms, “surveyors” are the various data collectors which operate on the internet today, mining our personal information and preferences to aid in the manufacturing of content and advertising campaigns. These surveyors work in conjunction with advertising agencies and companies, and based off of consumer trends, they decide which stories get published, and which commercial artists get paid.
“Real artists” as Coderscu claimed, are “duty-bound by their art to sabotage the familiar, in order to express an unsurveyed personal reality. Their very existence is predicated on the as-yet unexpressed and, hopefully, inexpressible.” Mainstream artists on the other hand, “Are not really fakes,” he wrote. “They are merely people apt at what they do, apt at gauging public taste, and are quite cognizant of surveys.”
When I signed up for my first domain name, I did not have any intention of being a mainstream writer. Even then, I felt I owed it to my audience to be forthright and raw. I attempted to write honestly and with little inhibition. Maybe I lacked that intuitive sense to withhold, but I did not see how a person could call themselves an artist, and not be true to their form. As Henry Miller put it in his essay, “On Turning Eighty,” “The most difficult thing for a creative individual is to refrain from the effort to make the world to his liking and to accept his fellow man for what he is, whether good, bad or indifferent. One does his best, but it is never good enough.” As a budding writer, of course I wanted to do my best, but above all, I wanted to be real.
So, I wrote about my fascination with reading the obituaries on Sunday mornings, my morbid obsession with mortality, and about being a single woman with a pet fish. I wrote about near-death experiences, obscure places I’d found myself in, and the dark places one wanders to after the loss of a loved one. I wrote about my philandering partner, and the moment I realized I had better things in which to invest my time in. I wrote about strip clubs, finding God in western corridors, and sitting one afternoon in a city clinic, watching girls enter and leave a room where abortions were performed. I also wrote about my transient life and the people who entered into it, at one time or another, inspiring and challenging me in different ways. These were by no means perfect examples of writing, but they were good stories just the same—stories I wanted to believe others would be interested in, could connect with, because they hit a nerve, or captured some familiar element of the human condition.
Come to find out, readers don’t want to know about how you sat down to write that morning after trying to fix a broken sump pump, or how your hands still have a faint onion smell from the dinner you made the night before. People’s lives were already “real” enough. They wanted to watch cat videos and babies laughing, satirical skits, and anecdotes about hope. They wanted alleviation and escapism, but they also wanted to be voyeurs of violent acts and exploitation. Here, I wanted to be honest and real for my audience, but quickly I could see, blogging had nothing to do with reality.
A musician friend of mine once explained his public persona (as a performer), as the hat he must wear to protect his vulnerable persona (the artist), from being torn apart. This notion of the compartmentalization of a public and private life seemed to be everywhere I looked online. And the closer I looked, the more aware I became. I was trying to become an artist and writer in the age of avatars and personal branding.
I am reminded of an essay by Paul Auster, titled “Native Son,” where he pays tribute to the late poet William Bronk. Auster writes, “America swallows up its poets, hides them away, forgets them. Except for the few who become famous (often those of meager talent), the poet with no axe to grind or vogue to follow can expect little but neglect—or, at best, the admiration of his peers. No one is to blame for this. We are simply too vast, too chaotic to notice everything that passes before our eyes.”
Auster toyed with the idea that Bronk’s poetry engendered a deeper premise, “That there is no inherent order or truth to the world, that whatever form or shape we feel it possesses is the one we ourselves imposed on it.”
In my early days of blogging, I was easily motivated and influenced by the traffic and comments on my page. Overall, when I was receiving feedback there was a relatively positive response to what I was putting out on the interwebs, and I took it as a sign that my writing was circulating. I tried to correlate how many “likes” and “shares” I was accruing, to what I envisioned success to look like. Though, no matter how I tried to connect this information to the value I saw in writing every day, it never lined up, and I became increasingly dissatisfied with the amount of time I was dedicating to pursuing my passion, only to feel like my platform wasn’t strong enough, or flashy enough, to get more hits.
During my grad school years, I was part of many writers’ workshops and conversations, where the focus always circled back around to the same topic. “What are you doing to grow your platform?” And, “You need to find a balance between making art and promoting your work.” Even though I could never form one example in my mind how blogging truly improved my writing, I trusted they knew what they were talking about.
Many of them were published, or soon-to-be published authors, who had embraced all the means and tools available to artists on the internet. Some believed that their over-extended agents and publishers were not as invested in promoting their work, and had decided to take marketing into their own hands. Some even braved it and self-published, hoping to retain their creative freedom and control over their meager book sales.
By having a presence online, they could connect directly with fans, and present themselves not just as a personality, but as an individual who grabs coffee and sends their kids off to school like everyone else. Using social media to break down the mythology surrounding the toiling writer, they were able to present a more humanistic side to the artistic process.
After long residencies, I would return home believing my blog needed to be more audience-driven, or that maybe I needed to find myself some advertisers to plop down on my page. My quest for an authentic voice was slowly being buried beneath a social narrative filled with catchy jargon, cliches and ideological bandwagons, and I did not have the fortitude of an experienced or tenured writer to speak out and say something, even when it did not feel quite right.
The act of consuming is not rational, it is compulsive and can change on a dime, depending on the kind of mood or mental space a person is in. Consumerist behavior on the internet falls right in line with the capitalist agenda of promoting materialism, products and propaganda. The disconcerting part of all this is the mindless consumption which takes place online, on a regular basis—the general lack of awareness of what we are consuming, how we choose to vote with our money, and the types of culture we are supporting in doing so. False identities spin fabricated narratives, and we move further and further away from the truth. We back up our claims using nonreferential language, and with evidence we have gathered from sources heavily reliant on rehashed dialogue and sensationalism. And yet, what is consumed the most online, more than junk we do not need, or the fake news that boils our blood, is our time.
When I finally made the decision to shut down my blog, I felt relief. No longer did I feel obligated to stay within the parameters of popular culture, or that in order to be a successful writer I needed to be conscious of my audience every time I approached the page. Recognizing that my audience was made up of mostly strangers with no real connection to me, or me to them, I knew as soon as we parted ways, they would not simply gain a few more precious moments of their day, but rather, they would wander on to the next flavor-of-the-week, looking for their entertainment fill.
Being able to write for myself again was freeing. My sacred time was returned to me, and I welcomed it back with open arms. Less time on the internet, meant more time looking around. It meant more time looking inside and thinking about how I wanted to have a real effect, on real individuals. How I wanted to be connected to the tangible again—to paint, to muck through forests, and to have all my senses piqued with something as simple as a misty, fall day in Vermont.
Another reason why I chose this course of action, was because it was becoming painful to watch the sedated deterioration of our civil fiber being broadcasted online, while knowing my own small community was in desperate need of people actively invested in making change happen. The communities we create online, made up of members who like the same things we like and who believe in the same things we do, perpetuate a false sense of unity. We surround ourselves with others like us, and then cry segregation, bigotry and racism. “But how is this still happening, today?” We demand, hoping we might find the answers and the solidarity we seek, by engaging in our filtered pockets of sameness.
I understand that part of the reason why people find it difficult to disconnect from social media is because they feel like they will miss something if they do. I know many people who wake up in the morning and check in on Facebook, worried that in the wee hours of sleeping something happened. But after twenty-odd minutes of scrolling their feeds, they quickly realize their updates consist of an overzealous friend discovering the meaning of life and many carefully arranged snapshots, which objectify and exemplify how fixated we are on achieving an image of perfection.
Of course, things are happening while we sleep. The world does not stop when we close our eyes at night. While we try to recoup that quiet space our minds so desperately need, there are still wars being fought and people starving in their own countries. (With all this information available to us, we have yet to figure out how to get along with each other, communicate, and help those most in need.) If only we could find quiet time not just in sleep, but to reflect and create and contribute to society in a productive and thoughtful way. What if the only thing we were concerned about missing out on was life?
What no one wants to say out loud, is that this is not the same publishing industry or culture that gave us the works of Didion, Cordescu, Auster or Miller. This is a different world entirely, and it is growing into a very noisy and taxing place to engage. As a writer I know I cannot possibly produce the most thoughtful prose, or contribute the most thoughtful dialogue, if I am not taking the time to hear myself think; if I'm not taking the time to be a considerate human being. I also cannot possibly make the soundest decisions regarding what is best for me personally and professionally, if I am not clear in thought. This means, for me, turning away from the noise.
To be an artist, I must be open to inspiration and what makes me feel connected. I must not only have an awareness of my process, but also an understanding of why I am making my offering to the world. As a society, we have the tendency to appropriate who deserves a voice and who does not, but as Robert Hass suggested when interviewed by Tod Marshall (Range of the Possible, 2002), authenticity comes when a writer actually gets to say what they think. "Where is there a need for expression and empowerment?" And, "Where are we over-saturated with much of the same?" Are two questions we should be asking ourselves, every time we choose to contribute to the noise, both as members of an audience, and as artists adding content.
I want to believe that an artist’s role today is to hold fast to our stories, and to share them as if we are witnesses of an unfolding history. For we have a responsibility and the ability to reflect on our past, calling up the voices of our forefathers to learn from their insights and the lessons we wish not to repeat.
And while there will always be artists who will choose to promote themselves over contribute to the exploratory and curious human experience (barely scraping the surface of the bigger work that still needs to be done), we can be certain there will always be a need for truth, and for real voices to be heard.